Campouts on Rooftops
by caritivereflection
Summary: Jack makes some things clear, and both he and Bobby find some peace for the night. One-shot.


**Takes place immediately after Acolouthic. Warning: Heavy implications of sexual abuse. Nothing explicit, just some creepy paragraphs. **

Jack shut the car door and rubbed his arms. It was even colder out now, and the air was biting insistently into his skin at first contact. His breath came out in clouds of mist, and he didn't wait for Bobby as he jogged up the walkway to the enclosed porch of his home. There was still a light on in the living room.

No one would guess that Evelyn Mercer was a night owl, but on weekends she could often be found up later than her sons, watching the old westerns she adored. Sometimes Jack would sit up with her. He didn't care much for the movies-they were hokey and filled with bad acting and worse plots. But it was one of those things he did to spend time with her, like cooking or going to the grocery store. He didn't mind being her helper, or even his brothers mocking him about it, as long as he got some time with her. His life had sorely lacked a proper parental figure for so many years that he figured he'd earned the right to be a little attached.

Jack pulled out his keys and unlocked the door, the cold knob burning against his fingers. It popped open with a click, and he dashed into the warmth and safety of the house.

Sure enough, there she was, seated on the couch in her robe, hair in curlers and a half eaten bowl of popcorn beside her. She looked up at him and smiled, and Jack found himself smiling back. From the TV, Jack could hear gunshots and the hoof beats of horses.

"I wasn't expecting you home yet, dear," she said, looking up briefly from the television screen. Her hair was a silver-blonde, almost blue in the spots where the light of the television flickered off it. "Did you have fun with your brothers?"

"Yeah," he said. He was only able to lie without being too obvious because he'd practiced in the car during the silent remainder of their drive. One word responses made everything easier.

"Good," she said, and before she could go in, the door popped open again and in walked Bobby. He stopped in the hallway next to Jack.

"Hey, ma," he said. "John Wayne?"

"Gary Cooper," she said. Her smile faded after a few moments and her eyes glanced to the curtained window. "Did you forget something, Bobby?"

Bobby frowned, looking from Evelyn to Jack to the door and back again.

"You brought Jack back," she said. "Are you heading back out...?"

"No," Bobby said, still frowning. "I brought him back in one piece, mom, just like you said. Ten fingers and toes and everything. You can count."

Jack raised up both his hands as if to prove a point, but lowered them when he caught on. His mouth formed a perfect O before he slammed it shut to stop himself from laughing.

"What?" Bobby said, his voice taking on an edge of annoyance.

"I expected you to bring _all_ of your brothers home in one piece, Bobby," Evelyn said, but her voice and her face were not without a trace of amusement.

Bobby's face froze, the frown fading as the surprise set in.

"Dammit," he said, and was back out the door without another word. Jack stared at it for a few seconds, vaguely registering the sound of the car door slamming and the engine turning over, and then burst out laughing.

Even Evelyn let out a chuckle as Jack moved to lock the door. Their neighborhood wasn't the worst around, but it wasn't the best and the Mercer boys had pissed off more than one person in their day, so they never took chances. Everyone had a key, so it wasn't an issue to lock the door anytime it was dark out.

When Jack walked back into the living room, the TV was quieter and Evelyn was looking at him with that suspicious gleam in her eyes. She patted the spot on the couch next to her, the bowl of popcorn moved to an end table.

"Will you come sit with me, Jackie?" she said. She had a way of asking for things that made it very clear it was not truly a question or optional. The weirdest part was that you didn't really feel like you were being forced, either. She asked that same way for a lot of things, and more than once Jack had found himself halfway through a sink of dishes before he realized that he didn't want to do them.

So Jack obeyed, because a part of him wanted to, even if he was a little afraid of her asking him about tonight or smelling the beer on his breath or Cindy's perfume on his clothes. It was flowery, and far too concentrated to explain away by being in the same room as someone.

"What did you and your brothers do tonight, sweetie?" Another loaded question. She asked everything like it was casual curiosity, and not like she was fishing for information on her oldest sons' behavior.

"Went to hang out with some people," he said. The practice was paying off, and the lie slipped from his tongue like oil.

"Some of your brothers friends?" she asked. Jack nodded. "How did Bobby manage to forget Angel and Jerry?"

Jack smiled at that. He kinda liked it when Bobby got in trouble, even if it wasn't really getting in trouble. Truthfully, Jack forgot too, and he didn't blame either of them for doing so. Hell, his brothers probably hadn't noticed.

"We went and got a burger," he said. "Then I said I was tired. Think I'm going to bed."

Jack made to stand up, but Evelyn's hand on his arm kept him down.

"Is there something you want to talk about?"

Jack bit his lips together, and his eyes went down to her hand, his warm soft skin touching his arm.

"No," he mumbled, but he couldn't meet her eye. He could imagine the look in her face, the one that knew he was hiding something. But she wouldn't push, not unless she knew she had to.

"Alright then," she said and Jack tried to rise again, but her hand was still holding onto him. "No goodnight hug for your mother?"

Jack smiled and hugged her. Her hugs were always warm and tight and soft and full of love and joy. She squeezed him and kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair, making it even messier than it was before.

"I love you, Jackie," she said as she released him. "Sleep tight."

"Love you too, mom," he said, and climbed the stairs to his room.

* * *

It was three AM and his ceiling was no more interesting than it was at two AM or any point since he had sent himself up to bed. He was tired, his body and his mind, but he simply couldn't sleep. Something, a tickle or a sting or _something_, jumped out in the back of his mind every time he closed his eyes.

So he stared at the ceiling. He knew it so well by now, had spent so many restless nights studying the notches and bumps and grooves, that he probably would have been able to tell if an errant mote of dust landed somewhere.

But it was getting boring now. He flopped over onto his stomach, turning the pillow as he did so, and rested his cheek against the cool surface and sighed.

There would be no sleep anytime soon. At least tomorrow was a Saturday and mom would let him sleep in.

He kicked his blanket down and swung his legs over the side. The room wasn't cold, but the air still shocked his bare legs, newly emerged from their cocoon of blankets. He stretched his arms and groaned.

He fumbled in the darkness of the room, grabbing the jeans he had discarded earlier and pulling them up over his boxers. He slid open the drawer of his bedside table and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, shoved them into his pockets.

He reached for his jacket, the back of the chair he usually kept it over, but found nothing but empty space.

It was probably still on the laundry room floor of that house, maybe stepped on or puked on or even fucked on by someone seeking out the privacy he had with Cindy.

It would be cold as balls outside.

He grabbed his blanket and slung it around his shoulders. The window slid open easily, silent ever since Jack had oiled it.

He was well practiced getting on to that roof. It was what he liked most about his room, even back in the days when he couldn't quite accept it as his. Back then, it had been because the window was an exit, his way out if things got too stressful or, he feared, violent. Now, it was more the calm that came with the roof of the porch. It was his place to get away and think, without walls coming down on him from every side.

It was cold as balls and hard to climb out with the blanket, but he managed without stumbling or causing a commotion. He grabbed a paperback from the floor and wedged it between the frame and window. The cold air bit at his toes as he sat down, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping himself in the blanket.

The air smelled clean, held the crisp tint that always preceded snow. It was almost a shame to pollute the nighttime air with his cigarette.

Almost.

He lit up the stick and inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs for a full five seconds and then slowly let it out, watching as the smoke wafted up while the condensated breath faded away.

With the cloud cover, no stars were visible and the moon was a big soft halo. Jack had hoped for a more pleasant sight, but it would have to do.

His cigarette was almost to the filter when he heard the footsteps behind him. Bobby. Always Bobby who checked on them-him and mom and sometimes even Angel and Jerry when he wasn't living with Camille. Always the insomniac, worse than Jack even. He filled his nights with infomercials and satisfaction in the knowledge that his family was safe.

The window slid open, clean and quiet and Jack wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't anticipating it.

"Jesus," was the first thing Bobby said after he sat down next to Jack, his voice hushed and soft as he could make it. Mom's window was over this part of the roof, too, and neither one fancied waking her up. "Cold as balls."

Jack laughed, breath rising up into the starless sky, and stubbed his cigarette out on the shingles.

"Weird saying, man," he said. His voice was low and rough now. It had been doing that more and more lately, but he only minded so much because he seemed to have been spared that awful squeaking so many other boys got. Maybe it was the cigarettes. He cleared his throat. "Balls are warm."

"You'd know," Bobby said with a smirk. But then that smirk fell and his eyes widened just a fraction of an inch and he cast Jack a quick sidelong glance. "Shit, Jack, I didn't mean to-"

"Don't," Jack said, his voice snapping tense as anger welled up inside of him, rushed up when he saw the widening of Bobby's eyes. "Don't fucking start doing that."

Bobby still looked at him, but shut his mouth, licked his lips and swallowed. He looked like he wanted to ask, but something was holding him back, and that just pissed Jack off more.

"Don't start treating me like that just because you know," he said. "I hate that, more than anything. I hate how people start treating me with kids gloves or like I'm gonna break. Don't do that to me."

"Jack..."

"No," Jack cut his hand in front of Bobby's face. He grabbed another cigarette and lit it up, not even caring about the disgusted look Bobby gave him. At least the man's distaste for his smoking hadn't changed. "Just... look. It's been years, and I'm not saying it's OK or whatever because it's not, but... I can deal with it, yeah? But I can't deal with..."

He inhaled and licked his lips, savoring the momentary spike in tobacco flavor. He opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure how to say it right, say it so Bobby would get it. He needed his brother to understand.

"I can't deal with it defining me to you."

He was looking at his legs as he said it, tracing a finger over the soft fabric stretched over his knees. That was all he wanted, for people to just forget they knew like Jack wished he could forget. He couldn't stand it, the looks he got. He was weak and powerless, and their stares just reminded him of that.

"That mean you still want me to call you fairy?"

Jack glanced at him, took a drag of his cigarette, almost smiled at the smirk playing on Bobby's lips. "Well, you can stop that one if you want."

Bobby shook his head, the loose strands of hair falling into his face. "You don't want nothing to change, then nothing'll change."

Bobby's hand gripped his shoulder as he said it, and Jack looked at him full on. He knew it wasn't a lie. Not because Bobby was honest or because Jack knew when he was lying, because the man could lie better than anyone, and sometimes even to mom. It was because... well, Bobby was good at two things in life, and one of them was being a big brother, and he always tried his damnedest with Jack.

"Thanks, Bobby," he said, snuffing his cigarette out on the shingles. He took a deep breath, and savored the way it burned his lungs. Bobby didn't say anything, didn't move or draw his hand away or make it tighter either. Just kept it there, a comfortable weight, one of the few forms of contact that Jack not only tolerated, but enjoyed. He didn't get touched a lot, and didn't mind that, but sometimes it was nice, when the time and the touch and the person were right and safe.

"Look, this, uh, this doesn't change anything," Bobby said, his tone more serious and less playful now. "But that don't mean I'm not worried."

"What does this change, man?" Jack said. "You said you always knew there was something."

"This is a different kind of something, Jack. I seen a lot of the kids mom's worked with... I just seen them not deal with it well, alright?"

Jack bit his lip. He didn't know what that meant. He didn't know if that included him or not. He didn't know if he dealt with it well, or maybe just didn't deal with it at all. Hell, he just tried not to think about it, and it really only came to mind in the darkness of his bedroom. There were other times, things mom called "triggers," but they were few and far between. The last one was months ago. Angel had called him pretty and earned a bloody nose for his trouble. Jack sealed himself up inside his room, shaking and making fists so he wouldn't tear his own skin off, until mom came and talked to him and hugged him until the tremors went away.

He'd said sorry to Angel, but the older boy just congratulated him on his right hook, joking that they better not piss him off or he'd have them down before they could blink.

And tonight. It had felt good, to touch her, to kiss her, and to touch and be kissed in return. But that moment, her hand on his crotch, had made everything swoop back and all the good feeling evaporated like breath in deep winter.

_You like that, don't you? Say you like it, Jack._

Jack shuddered, his skin crawling at the memory of the man's voice. That and the smell were worst, the Pine Sol and bleach. Jack was already beginning to forget his face, perhaps because he always averted his gaze in that house. For two and a half whole years, he had looked at necks or shoulders or feet. It was the voice and the smell that cameoed in Jack's nightmares, their owner bathed in a shadow.

"Let me know what's up, ya?" Bobby said. He was good with people, even if he didn't believe it. Or maybe he was just good with Jack, but he knew when not to mention something as well as when to do so. Bobby's hand left his shoulder and he stood up. "Now get some sleep. Mom wants us to clean out the attic tomorrow, and it's all your fault."

Jack frowned at Bobby. "How is it my fault?" he said.

"She was mad that her baby came home smelling like beer," Bobby said, slinking in through the window and leaving Jack alone.

Jack shook his head. Figured he'd get pegged for the beers. Not like he could deny her a goodnight hug.

Jack smoked one more cigarette, savoring the flavor and the cool night air. He was getting sleepy now, the sort where you could barely keep your eyes open. After a long drag, he pried his eyes open. It wouldn't do to fall asleep on the roof. He stubbed the cigarette out, adding it to the little pile he would have to take care of later. He knew mom snooped around on the roof, and while she grudgingly accepted that she couldn't get him to give up his smoking habit, she didn't like finding butts all around.

He slowly went back in through the window, dragging the blanket behind him. The part exposed to the air was freezing cold now, but thankfully the snow had decided to wait, so it was just a matter of waiting for it to warm up. He threw the blanket back onto his bed and closed the window, snapping the lock into place.

He turned around, taking in the darkness of his room. It was never really dark in Detroit, and yellow light from the street lamps lit his room.

He frowned, one hand pausing on the button of his jeans. There, on the back of his desk chair, was his jacket.

He smiled. Sometimes Bobby was the best brother a guy could have.


End file.
